


Infinite Space

by AstroNanners



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2018-01-01 00:40:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstroNanners/pseuds/AstroNanners
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes, the gravitational focus, meets Sebastian Moran, the redshifted, clustered mess of a killer, and suddenly everything dark about matter matters little.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Infinite Space

“ _The_ _Cosmos_ _is_ _all_ _that is or ever was or ever will be._ _Our feeblest contemplations of the Cosmos stir us — there is a tingling in the spine, a catch in the voice, a faint sensation of a distant memory, as if we were falling from a great height. We know we are approaching the_ _greatest_ _of mysteries.”_

 - Carl Sagan

* * *

It was Tchaikovsky that accompanied him as he slipped from the alleyway, kicking his shoes against the ground to tear the grime from his soles. Rachmaninoff was there as he treaded past the abandoned remains of the Palace Theater, pausing briefly to consider the prophetic _Do Not Enter_ sign hanging on the door. Mozart made an appearance just as a jalopy scurried past him, _put-put-putting_ its way down the deserted street and turning sharply at the nearest corner – the first sign of life he’d seen for hours. And Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata,” like some portentous undertone, was the elixir that cured him as it emerged at the first sign of rainfall. It sent the city into a hushed second of peace and cloaked him in equanimity.

In a manner of speaking, he was thankful for the not-so-quiet journey he was taking; it was pure luck that he stumbled upon a music device teeming with such a classical oeuvre. The target, a metrosexual twenty-something, just happened to have the iPod stuffed in his back pocket, and now that he lay prostrate in an alley nearby, blood pooling from a dot on his chest, he didn’t exactly _need_ it.

_He should be thanking me for taking it off his hands, really._

The sniper was on the qui vive as he made his way down the vacant street, eyes snapping at every indication of movement, fingers delving deeper into his pockets, lips curling, teeth nibbling at available skin. Yet he felt no fear, for internally, he was rather optimistic; the outward air he presented to incoming strangers was false (and rightly so). How on earth could he let himself become paralyzed by the intimidation of others? The figures he spotted quaking in nearby alleyways—they knew who he was, no doubt—would do him no harm, so long as he kept on his way. He was a zone of avoidance, an astronomical juggernaut shoving through missing matter. He was headed to another part of town for another kind of reason: to appease his fatigued, overworked body, and nothing was going to stop him.

Adjusting the sniper rifle strapped to his back, he pressed onward through the trickling rain. He was lugubrious in the night’s hardening, moonless darkness, a transparent, mobile form emerging from a fog of London’s own creation. Despite how he acted, despite the occasional shiver he feigned to keep up appearances, the combined efforts of his instinct, will, and goal propelled him forward. He was just how he felt: effortlessly untouchable.

It grew colder as he neared the bar, but he paid no mind to the drop in temperature. His combat boots drummed on the pavement, smacking the new rain, the puddles waiting to kiss his feet like fans of his work. _If only they knew._ When his gaze locked on the desired destination, however, a wave of urgency sparked through him. He could see the bar from where he stood, its dilapidated structure squeezed into a street corner, glowing and humming with the sounds of a live band.

The mere sight of it was just enough to make his head reel.

Silently, he ducked inside. A familiar miasma hit him on his way in, or perhaps it was his imagination that forged such a stench. Combined with the stale perfume of agitated groupies and the virile scent from pool-playing inebriates, the bar’s odor swamped him in memories. Never mind his notoriety. Never mind his utter dislike of those in attendance. He had spent many a day at that bar, regardless of the rowdy patrons and the unsolicited attention. He recalled how his muscular body fit snugly in that booth against the back wall, a look of deep contemplation naked on his pockmarked face for hours on end. Occasionally the wait-staff paid him a visit, offering him a tall glass of Guinness or a shot of vodka, but they never questioned why he was there, or why he tucked himself away from the mayhem. Not once had the police been called on him, either. He wasn’t there to kill, hunt, obtain information with bloodshed; they knew that. All the man wanted was somewhere to unwind, and this insignificant little bar was the only place in London for him to do so.

He _was_ Sebastian Moran, after all. His name carried… and went. He was known through every system, every corrupted hand. Known, remembered, feared, counted on, cursed, flogged, vandalized. The bloke from Eton. Oxford. Afghanistan. The one with the pistol, the rifle, the _knife,_ trained in forgery, larceny, arson and theft, extortion, solicitation, _interrogation_ and, his specialty, assassination. He was the tiger, the monster, the claws that either tore you to pieces or plugged lead down your throat. There was nothing demure about a man that killed more men than he spoke to. He was a libertine with a master, a martinet, a murderous beast on Napoleon’s leash, and to the crime lords and the minions of the world, this was anything but nebulous. Moran stood on the sidelines of every eye in London, and with a snap of kingly fingers, he mauled.

He wasn’t to be messed with.

Perfectly ready to take his usual booth in the back, Sebastian ambled through the throngs of drunks and whores in his way, careful not to arouse suspicion as he noted the regulars and the not-so-regulars in the crowd. He detected a few familiar faces at the bar and naturally endeavored to avoid them at all costs. Eye contact always led to a brawl, and that was the last thing he needed, especially since exhaustion was closing in on him.

_Like I’d tell them that._

A sidestep or two later, Sebastian had reached his booth. He fully intended to collapse onto the scratchy cushions and shut his eyes for a moment, letting the bar’s ambience dismantle his drained mind, but there was a discernible complication to his plan, and it rumbled, trembled, and squawked in his pocket like a stolen bird aching for flight.

_You’re needed. M_

Sebastian groaned, tossed his rifle onto the seat, and dropped into his booth, shoulders sagging. “Not now, Jim.” He peeled his wet jacket from his arms and laid it on the leather beside him. Multiple assignments in the same week crippled him _—_ his boss _knew_ that. Though many considered Basher practically bulletproof, exploitation took a toll on his sleeping schedule. Another errand, and Sebastian would surely trip up. Tigers liked their naps. With a frustrated sigh, the sniper plunged into the conversation.

_Where to? SM_

An answer pinged almost immediately. No surprise.

_Do you remember my first murder? M_

_Not particularly, seeing as I wasn’t there. SM_

_Carl Powers. M_

_The kid that laughed? SM_

_Yes. M_

_What about him? SM_

Sebastian pulled his credit card from his pocket and ordered a Guinness from a passing waiter as he waited for Jim’s response.

_The pool. We’re meeting a friend. Gather your tools. Bring your gun. M_

_Holmes? SM_

_Holmes. Midnight. I don’t want you to miss the party, Basher. M_

Releasing the heaviest of sighs, Sebastian slumped back against the cushion, one hand diving to nurse a headache. The other, grasping his phone, toyed with it between sluggish fingers. He’d never defied Jim’s rule before. Was it time for a little protest?

No. That time would never come. He had a job to do, and damn if he disobeyed his boss, even once.

The tiger tapped out his reply and drank his beer.

_I'll be there. SM_


End file.
